


Matters of Trust

by Kawaiibooker



Series: A Witcher And His Friends [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Gen, Geralt Whump, Geralt is a self-sacrificing idiot and Regis is Tired, Hurt/Comfort, Look... I tried ok, Medical Inaccuracies, Monster!Geralt, Near Death Experiences, Vomiting (non-graphic), mutations, poor Regis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: Geralt attempts a third round of mutations. Regis performs damage control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between "The Man from Cintra" and "Capture the Castle". References the sidequest "Turn and Face the Strange".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [aergos](http://aergos.tumblr.com/).

The doors of the contraption swing shut on silent hinges. With a solid _click_ , the lock snaps into place.

Fully encased in metal, Geralt closes his eyes. The air smells of blood, witcher blood, and that distinct monster stench that makes his nose itch – he ignores it, reaches towards the wisp of serenity taking shape inside him. Muscle by muscle, his body relaxes. The constant flow of sensory information eases. Geralt's breathing slows down to nothing.

When the mechanical hissing sets in, it's dull and far away. Drops of sticky condensation gather on his naked skin, unnoticed at first; they fall, their path down his body a prickling trail growing steadily more uncomfortable. Geralt frowns, shifts, inhales–

–and coughs, tastes the bite of toxins on his tongue. His instincts roar to life, piercing the forced lull in his thoughts, _too late_ , as he feels the green-tinged gas enter his every pore, stinging his blinking eyes.

A rush of emotion: _the smooth ceiling of a cavern, moss-covered walls; water dripping on his face,_ drip drip drip _, consistent and unsettling; ropes around his wrists, a steady voice in the dark._

_Drink._

Geralt swallows, chokes again as his throat _burns_ –

– _another voice orders him to breathe; same cavern, same walls but there's a tube in his mouth now, thin lips stretched around it; his body is on fire, his skin is melting; and all around him, heartbeats like his flicker and die like candles in a storm–_

Geralt throws himself against the faint line of light seeping through the crack in front of him. He claws at his neck, his chest, wheezes out a groan that left his lungs as a scream.

The pain is always there and builds and builds and _builds_ until all he longs for is darkness, the numbing touch of death to escape it all.

It takes hours, days perhaps: Finally, consciousness slips from his grasp.

***

Waiting usually comes easy to Regis.

After all what is a moment, a minute, an hour, a day to a century or four of experience?

Can time be truly wasted for someone with an eternal supply of it?

The blink of an eye, the snap of fingers – and kingdoms rise and fall, lives are born and ended, love is found and lost. Living even a thin slice of that eternity, it is hardly a surprise that most things deemed pressing at first turn out to be insignificant in the long run.

In this day, hour, minute, moment, Regis is restless, however. He is pacing from one wall to the other, there and back again, eyes and mind fixed on the sliver of moonlight crawling over the stone floor of his crypt. It's almost midnight: He wonders if they will make their move tonight, or if another idle day shall pass instead.

Regis pauses.

Maybe Dettlaff's rather impatient nature is rubbing off on him. Regis examines the twinge of frustration carefully and adjusts the thought. This situation is difficult for all of them. Surely the delay is justified.

The expected caw of a raven ends his musings. Regis crosses his temporary home in a few strides, murmuring a soft “There you are, my friend” to the bird landing on his desk. She's been with him for most of her life; her plumage is now dull and thin, betraying her age, but her eyes remain alert.

_The White One approaches._

"Geralt?" Although the witcher's presence is always welcome, it's... not the information he hoped for. “And the mill. Any movement yet?”, he presses. She stares back and repeats herself, feathers ruffled with anxiety.

_The White One approaches. Beware._

Regis' brows draw together. _A warning?_ To his knowledge, much unlike cats, ravens are indifferent to witchers. Some of his informants seem to like Geralt, given the small treats he slips them here and there to be left in peace. It was a badly-kept secret for some time, but even a botched attempt at silence is a gift these loyal birds wouldn't grant just anyone.

Nevertheless, a raven never lies. Regis gives his friend her reward, a round pouch filled with all kinds of seeds and berries, and watches her fly out the bird-sized hole he created just for this purpose.

Before the vampire can decide what to make of her cryptic words, a stiff breeze wafts in, carrying the promise of a storm. Instinctively, Regis lifts his head, his sensitive nose catching the ever-present scent of death and decay that surrounds his home, a touch of rain – and the animalistic smell of something primal, something _monstrous_.

It's difficult to make out which kind; an insectuoid, perhaps, were it not for the lingering, mammal-like tang to it. Regis's frown deepens. Another problem on his ever-growing list.

On the other hand... This might offer a distraction from his restlessness, no matter how brief.

Fastening his vest properly, Regis grabs for his supply bag on his way out. Might as well gather some herbs while he's out – Geralt usually doesn't mind tagging along, and Regis doesn't mind giving him half of his pickings for the company.

With new purpose, the vampire gets as far as putting the key in the crypt's lock before the very door shakes under heavy knocks. His senses zero in on whoever is on the other side – rattling breaths, unsteady steps; the rasp of a hand against worn wood that creaks pitifully under the added weight – and the smell is stronger now, overpowering, almost.

“Regis...”

It's barely a whisper, no, a plea and Regis' eyes widen as he jumps to action, just shy of ripping the door from its hinges. _That voice–_

“Geralt”, he breathes. The witcher – his witcher – stumbles with the loss of his support, eyes half-lidded in a face paler than death, but it's the near-black lines of his veins disappearing into the folds of his dishevelled armor that make Regis' stomach turn with sudden dread.

One step, that's all Geralt manages. Knees buckling, he rasps, “Help me”, trying and failing to grasp Regis' sleeve on his way down; with movements faster than any human's, Regis catches him, drags him up until they're chest to chest and the witcher's head lolls against his neck. He hisses at the fever-hot touch of Geralt's skin on his own.

“Geralt, what in the world happened? Geralt?!”

There's no response.

The witcher goes slack in his arms.

*

Regis is little more than a blur as he carries Geralt inside and frees up enough space to lay him down, darting off to gather whichever supplies occur to him in that instant.

The makeshift cot allows just enough room to be comfortable for a man of Geralt's size, not that the witcher is currently aware of it. Indeed he barely twitches when Regis returns; a bowl, mortar and pestle, strips of cloth, herbs, various vials, and other medicinal equipment clatter to the ground. Not a second later, Regis' fingers dig beyond the collar of Geralt's jacket for a pulse – a second passes, then two.

Nothing.

Gritting his sharp teeth, the vampire holds himself back enough not to rip the intricate gear to shreds. Even with the knowledge how it works, the various clasps and strings won't cooperate instantly, slipping out of his shaking hands over and over.

Regis closes his eyes. _Focus_.

His next attempt goes smoothly; piece by piece, the armor falls away to reveal the witcher's sickly-white skin. With all barriers gone, he can _hear_ the struggling heartbeat in Geralt's chest – slow, so, so slow – and places his hand over it.

“This is grave”, he mutters, feeling it throb weakly, too weak to keep him alive for much longer. “My dear Geralt, what did you get yourself into this time?”

Despite his pallor, the witcher is burning up, drenched in sweat and– _Something else?_ Leaning in, Regis registers a green, sticky substance clinging to the dips and valleys of Geralt's scars. Up close, it's easier to distinguish as the source of the stench clouding Geralt's natural scent.

_Poison?_

His every instinct is screaming at him to stay away from it; frowning, the vampire quickly wets a clean cloth and starts wiping down every trace of the substance from Geralt's now-naked body. Not before taking a sample, though – if his hunch proves correct, an anti-toxin will be needed.

The water he wrings out is murky, and smells foul. Repeating the same motions, Regis's eyes trace every bit of skin for additional injuries. He finds very little: There's faint marks of human nails on his jaw, neck and chest, healed enough not to be an immediate concern. Scrapes and shallow cuts along both arms indicate a skirmish, more likely a fall. No infections, no bruising beyond what's to be expected.

Again, he leans close and inhales deeply. Geralt's blood – usually of a pleasantly vibrant quality – is... out of balance, in a way, like a perfectly still pond disturbed by a stone falling in its midst. How the ripples of this corruption will affect him cannot be measured or predicted.

If it weren't for that, Regis would say Geralt caught an especially nasty strand of the common cold.

Aside from the fact that witchers physically can't catch anything, of course.

On first glance, the raging fever seems to be the biggest drain on Geralt's strength. Thankfully, his kind works just like humans in that regard; after covering him in every blanket in his possession, Regis sets his remaining supply of White Willow, Meadowsweet and Yarrow to brew before returning to the witcher's side.

His gaze is automatically drawn back to Geralt's neck, to the darkened veins that inch closer to his chest. Regis narrows his eyes. A sudden hatred bubbles up for whatever – or whoever – did this to him. For an instant, he considers checking Geralt's bag for hints with which to determine the possible culprit, a diary or a bestiary of sorts – but one glance at his friend's slack face and Regis discards the idea.

He takes the kettle off the fire and pours the clear tea in a mug. While it cools, Regis cups Geralt's face with his left, carefully lifting first one lid, then the other. Even unconscious his pupils are contracted to slits, the bright gold of his irises unnaturally large. The surrounding sclera is a deep, bloodshot red that makes Regis wince in sympathy.

How he even managed to drag himself to Regis' doorstep in this state... He shakes his head solemnly. Geralt'll have some serious questions to answer once he wakes.

Stubbornly, the vampire banishes the thought of any other alternative from his mind.

Taking the tea, Regis raises Geralt's head as he places the mug against his lips, opening his mouth with gentle pressure. Sip by sip runs into the witcher's throat; suddenly, a flash of pain crosses Geralt's face and he turns away with a huffed groan, lids fluttering, flirting with consciousness.

Regis almost smiles.

“No Resonance this time, just tea. Drink, my friend.”

Trying again, Geralt swallows with some difficulty, once, twice, then he clenches his jaw, teeth resolutely shut. “Good”, Regis hears himself praise distractedly – his eyes are locked on the witcher's mouth, however, where the pointed tips of fang-like canines dig into his lower lip.

In all his time at Geralt's side, that particular mutation had remained hidden from sight. Or did it? Regis remembers seeing a big smile on the witcher's face here and there, rare as it was. And much like his eyes, a beast-like set of teeth shouldn't have escaped his attention...

Inspecting them closer turns out to be a challenge. Half-awake, Geralt jerkily evades Regis' inquisitive touches. Even a mildly judging “Please stop, I don't want to hurt you” doesn't help; lips thinning to a determined line, the vampire digs his thumb into Geralt's cheek, forcing his jaw open for a moment, just long enough to confirm–

Only his heightened senses save his fingers from getting bitten clean off as Geralt _snaps_ , an inhuman growl rumbling deep in his throat. Regis finds himself on the opposite side of the room with his fangs bared in a matching snarl and his claws itching to show.

Then he blinks. Wrestling back control from his more feral instincts would be easier were Regis fully regenerated; as it stands, the other caught him utterly off-guard.

Geralt, on the other hand, behaves like an entirely different being than mere minutes ago. His intense gaze pierces Regis, sizing him up like an intruder, an enemy to be torn apart if need be, and only now does the state of his eyes seem more permanent than the mere bruising he previously observed. Even the hand he holds himself steady with is clawed, talons sharp and hooked almost like a griffin's.

To all intents and purposes, they look like mutations, more severe than anything Regis has seen except for some wild speculations in manuscripts of dubious origin. More severe, certainly, than anything he's witnessed on Geralt's body to date.

Do a witcher's mutations get progressively worse with age?

 _Highly unlikely_ , he denies, mind racing through every possible scenario he can think of. Geralt never mentioned anything of the sort when talking about Vesemir, and for a moment, Regis dwells on how little he actually knows about their kind. A clearly avoidable mistake, in hindsight.

Meeting Geralt's eyes, the doctor can't help but worry about his unchanged paleness, and how far the black tendrils of his veins have reached, coming together between the arch of his clavicles.

Then it all falls into place: the toxins, the fever, the corruption of his blood; the missing injuries and now, the progressing mutations...

Regis looks at what his friend has become and whispers,

“Oh Geralt, what did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended to write that fluffy idea I had. Instead the angsty one happened. Forgive me.
> 
> Anyways, whilst I was fucking around in Moreau's lab, I found myself questioning Geralt's intentions to casually do some more mutations. Like. I know it's for a game mechanic but... Weren't the first two rounds horrible enough...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [aergos](http://aergos.tumblr.com/).

“Geralt.”

A wet huff, the clumsy collision of consonants and vowels.

“R– Regi–“

He steps forward. “Just me, my friend.” Deliberate. Calm.

Eyes red like blood track his movement. Claws twitch, dig into old stone. Again, “Regis”, slow and careful, painfully close to controlled but not fully there yet.

“Don't come... closer.”

“I will”, he says. Simple. Honest. The quickening of a frenzied heartbeat, only a few strides away. “Deep breaths, Geralt.”

Another step, another heavy inhale. It turns into a low hiss on the exhale.

“Just me”, he repeats. _It's okay._ “Your friend, Regis.”

A shudder, “Don't–“, head shaking violently. “No. No!”

He reaches, cautiously. _Calm, calm, calm._ He smiles.

“You trust me, remember?”

A moment of recognition. Relief. Confusion. Fear. _Panic._

The beast lunges.

*

Restraint has been Regis' enemy ever since he woke from deep slumber and thought: _Never again._

The temptation is always there, one careless second away, a siren's song that runs through the veins of loved ones and strangers alike. Most days, Regis can tune it out.

A need of an entirely different kind calls him, now; one to bear his teeth and counter claws with claws, to tear into flesh and devour what threatens him.

“Deep breaths”, he tells himself, voice straining as he holds the beast back by its neck, hands itching to squeeze, crush the pulse thrumming under his palm.

No. Friend. _Trust._

Pain registers, suddenly more than a muted distraction; Regis flinches as talons dig deep. Geralt twists out of his grasp. All rational thought is lost to instinct as they meet half-way on the next strike. A flash of fangs, crimson spraying the ground in an uneven arch – Regis _howls_ , and it bleeds into his vision, too, red and black, they fight like only monsters can, a whirlwind of muscle and bone and deadly precision that leaves no room for a clear mind.

Regis comes to naked skin and the rush of blood, _right there_. Geralt is pinned under him, back to chest, body heaving with panted breaths as he yanks at the iron grip of Regis' claws piercing his wrists. The smell of fear, sharp and sickening, pulls him further away from the mindless rage inside him.

Regis' forehead drops to Geralt's shoulder.

“Stop. Please _stop_ , I'm on your side–”

And even though he can't quite tell who he's talking to – himself, or the trembling man under him? – Regis doesn't relent, mouth moving along a constant stream of reassurances.

Eventually, Geralt ceases struggling, something horribly close to resignation settling on the side of his face visible to Regis. Those intense eyes of his are half-lidded, unfocused; the delicate skin underneath is riddled with small indentations, _scales_ , the vampire realizes, almost translucent in color.

“It's getting worse”, Regis mutters, a pang of pure horror striking him to the core. Without thinking he turns Geralt around – he is pliant with exhaustion; Regis clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt – and stares, disbelieving, at the blackness that has almost reached his heart.

“No. No, n–no, _Geralt_...”

“Regis”, comes the weak answer. Bloodied gold blinks up at him and Regis cups his face, vision blurring.

“What do I do? How do I–“

Speech pains him, it's easy to see now but Geralt tries, words cut to pieces by heavy swallows. “Blood”, he rasps, “my–“

“It's poisoned, corrupted, yes, but making an antidote–“

The tips of Geralt's talons dig into Regis' arm. The pain is minimal and yet there, _urgent_ , begging him to pay attention.

Because Regis knows time is running out, and Geralt knows it too.

“Drink.”

He drags Regis forward, making the vampire stumble and catch himself against the ground. Regis' gaze drops to Geralt's neck instantly. He freezes.

“Geralt, I don't–“

“Please.” And again, more quietly, “please”, when he hesitates.

“I don't know if I can stop”, Regis whispers, the admission stabbing his chest where his heart stopped beating centuries ago.

But Geralt smiles, crooked and tired and with too much teeth.

“My... friend.”

His lips are flecked black, dots of corrupted blood that pearl and run down his chin. Regis can't look away; infinitely gentle, he wipes them clean with his thumb.

"Forgive me."

He gives in, then, eyes fluttering as his fangs sink in and the taste of it bursts on his tongue. It's off, bitter and _wrong_ in a way that sends his senses into a frenzy but that part of himself that he let starve for decades _sings_ , makes him bite down and drink until he's dizzy with it.

Geralt barely moves, just clenches his eyes shut and clings to Regis' sleeve. Distantly, Regis is aware of how faint his breathing gets with every gulp he takes, of the heart that trips and stumbles and still refuses to stop.

It's the soft sound of Geralt's hand hitting stone that startles Regis, long enough to scrap the tattered edges of his self-control together and _let go_ – only a few drops spill out of the oval-shaped collection of puncture wounds he leaves behind, and for a confused little moment, he wonders _why_.

And reality crashes in.

“Geralt”, Regis breathes, hands trembling with the sheer energy the witcher's blood grants him as he feels his body – cold, lifeless – and searches for the dark lines that haunted him so an eternity ago, tracing the faint bruise-like marks left behind.

He looks at Geralt's face last, his skin even paler, paper-white and equally as fragile, and something inside him gives. “I couldn't... I–“, he chokes, gathers him to his chest and rocks him as if any measure of comfort could fix him, make him whole and alive again.

“What have I done?”

The question is but a rasp, small and lost in the sudden silence around him. Even the constant noises of the ravens outside have ceased, like they know of the sin he committed, and Regis starts to shake as the room around him dims, narrows down to the limp weight of Geralt in his arms.

Thus he misses the feeble twitch of fingers, or the stutter of lungs gasping for air. A muffled whimper arises, brushes against Regis' neck–

–and deep within, a witcher's heart starts to beat anew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'd like to say THANK YOU to those who kept kicking my butt to update!
> 
> After long consideration, I decided to split the conclusion into two parts to be able to give you patient wonderful people some relief and/or remind you that this story is still on. What you're reading was mostly done a few months ago, waiting to be completed -- it's short, I know, but it'll give me room to breathe and push through till the end.
> 
> Thus, I want to ask for one more bout of patience. I'm clawing my way back from rough times, both in terms of stress and mental health stuff, but I'm back on a schedule and that means regular writing sessions, too.
> 
> We'll get there, fam <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [aergos](http://aergos.tumblr.com/).
> 
> There's a small update to the tags. Enjoy!

Geralt knows, as he lies there and counts his own breaths, that he should be dead.

For some time he merely _exists_ in a listless, unmoving state. Eyes closed, his world consists of noises and sensations – the scratchy weight of wool on naked skin; intense warmth pressing against his side like a lover, chasing away the chill settled deep in his bones; a raven's caw, mournful – but they are distant, dimmed by the ache that crests and washes over him like waves over shoreline sand.

It reaches further and further along his body, down his arms and legs until it laps at his fingers and toes, making them curl. Geralt grunts, muscles largely unresponsive as he attempts to move, to escape, to do _anything_ –

“Shh, shh”, sounds a voice above him, _too close,_ yet Geralt relaxes into the cool touch of a hand on his face. “Here. It'll help.”

A flash of a dream, a memory– His jaw slackens, lips slightly parted to accept the liquid dribbling onto his tongue and down his throat. Belatedly, the taste registers: the prickling numbness of White Gull mixed with a trace of copper.

_Blood._

Geralt coughs, chokes a little on the swallow; gentle fingers run down his throat and back up again, calming the spasm building there. “It's mine. No way around it, I'm afraid... Your body needs a little pick-me-up.”

 _Regis._ Squinting, Geralt peers up into the obscurity around him, straining to see. There, a pale shape that could be a person– It's hard to focus on as it blurs in and out of existence. Suddenly, it fills out his entire vision.

Then: darkness.

“Ah, ah! Not yet, dear friend.” Geralt tries to shake his head, to shift the weight covering his eyes. “I know it's uncomfortable. However, it's already an improvement given you nearly blinded yourself. We _are_ going to talk about that, by the way.”

“R'gis.”

“Later, Geralt. You–“, and the steady voice falters, just once. “You lost a lot of blood. You need to rest.”

“'m sorry.”

A moment of silence. Slowly, the pressure lifts, replaced by the barely-there feeling of a hand in his hair, brushing it back.

Geralt keeps his lids closed and sighs, the pain ebbed to a low throb now.

“You came back to me. That's all that counts.”

It takes a while for him to find sleep again. Regis remains by his side until he does.

*

Geralt wakes to the sound of loud retching, and for an instant, he thinks it's him with how his stomach lurches half-way out his mouth.

Before he's fully aware of it, the witcher is propped up on his side, reaching for the swords on his back– Predictably, there's nothing there, and the barrage of jumbled images that hit his mind with a second's delay serves as a pointed reminder why.

The lab, the contraption, the mutagens– everything after knocking on Regis' door is a red-tinged blur, and Geralt shudders with the few clear recollections he has. His tongue traces the arch of his teeth automatically, relief twisting with trepidation to find them back to their usual state, if marginally sharper, and aching like the rest of him.

His hand – now clawless – has found its way to his neck when movement registers in the dim corners of the room. Geralt's gaze snaps into focus with some difficulty, makes out the familiar shape of his favorite vampire beyond the crackling glow of a neglected fire; his lips freeze on their way to a smile, however, as Regis staggers in on uncertain feet.

Their eyes meet.

“Ah”, Regis utters awkwardly and his eyes lower, zero in on Geralt's fingers covering the bite, _his_ bite. The lines around his mouth deepen.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

Geralt drops his hand immediately, grimacing as he sits up fully. Patting the now-freed space at his side, he replies bluntly, “Y'look like shit”, the teasing edge of concern bleeding through despite how rough his voice is.

As expected, it makes Regis huff out a dry chuckle. He doesn't comment beyond that, instead letting himself fall into place in a controlled sort of collapse, close enough their knees touch.

“Hungover?”

Regis tenses up and sighs, heavily. “Yes, rather impressively so. I understand if you'd prefer not to discuss it just yet.“

Geralt scoffs softly, “Please”, eyeing his friend with some judgement. “I practically forced you to–“, he bites back _relapse_ just in time, the pause hanging in the air clumsily. “Besides, you've experienced your share of my, uh, escapades. Fair's fair.”

“Only those didn't involve–“

“–saving someone's life? True. More like getting ill-advised tattoos and ending up naked in someone else's bed.” Geralt frowns. “Huh.”

Regis is looking at him with exasperated fondness. “I regret not witnessing the tattoo incident first-hand.” He shakes his head. “But my point still stands, Geralt. Quite dangerous to bet on me in that way. Some would even say foolish.”

The reprimand, gentle as it is, makes Geralt's stomach drop with guilt; he fiddles with a stray fiber of the blanket pooled in his lap. The flesh underneath his nails is blushed red and throbbing, the new skin tender still against the rough texture.

“Wasn't thinking straight, couldn't. Noticed instantly something's wrong, and all I could manage to grasp was that I had to somehow get... here.”

Regis hums, saying nothing. Yet the tension is mounting, in this silence that begs for an answer more desperately than any question could. Geralt's brow draws tight, the dying firelight casting shifting shadows on his face.

“When I– Hm. After the Changes, when I was told I could be better, _more_ , I wanted to resist. Don't know if it would've made a difference, it's... hard to remember, after a certain point. There was a moment just before the first Decoction that I was certain drinking it was the last thing I'd ever do.”

Regis' gaze is on him. Undemanding. _Calm._ Geralt glances at the vampire's trembling hands instead and thinks, _never again_.

“But it wasn't, and over the decades I fought and survived and forgot how it feels. To have my body torn apart. To be rendered entirely powerless like that. And then Dettlaff came around.”

Looking up, he catches the vampire's startled expression before it hardens. “Geralt...“

“He's dangerous, Regis. He's–“, he stops, forces himself to rephrase, “I know you believe in him. That he can come back to himself, like you. But knowing what he's done, what he is capable of doing... There's a very real possibility this won't go our way. I had to do something.”

Regis' bloodshot eyes shine with emotion; Geralt doesn't dare to break away from them, searching their depths for the frustration he expects, the anger he deserves, for pushing him beyond his limits, for getting himself almost killed, _again_.

“I saw the lengths you're willing to go for him, Regis. And I thought, if I could become more, maybe... you wouldn't have to.”

“Oh Geralt”, Regis rasps, the lines on his ancient face only deepening as he shakes his head. “My dear friend, no. Dettlaff is my responsibility and mine alone. So is whatever results from his actions, confused as he is.”

“Regis–“

“No, Geralt. This was never your fight to begin with. Believe me, as much as I am grateful it led to our reunion: that you were dragged into my mess at all is regrettable enough. The mere thought you would do this to yourself, for _me_ , I– I cannot bear it.”

All protest dies on Geralt's lips at the rawness of Regis' words. He swallows thickly. “I fucked up. I didn't– I'm sorry.”

And even now, somehow, his friend's expression shifts with a smile, soft with empathy. “I know, Geralt. I figured your recklessness wouldn't come without reason. However, could I ask for a favor?”

“'course. Owe you a lifetime of those by now.”

“The next time you wish to experiment with new mutagens, _tell me_ ”, Regis says, voice firm. “Your biology is already strained as is, but if it's what you need, we can look into safer and more efficient methods than the witcher ways of old. No offense.”

Geralt grimaces. “Yeah, no, fuck those. Not interested in a repeat performance anytime soon, either, but... I'll keep it in mind. Thanks, Regis.”

The vampire waves vaguely, “Don't mention it” – and, having said his mind, the tension keeping him upright slowly starts to bleed out. Wincing, Geralt throws half of his blanket over the heap of misery that is Regis.

“There's no quick remedies for hungover vampires, is there?”

“More blood”, comes the muttered answer. Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Aside from that, no. Can't say I can recommend it.”

“Your turn to rest, then. I'll keep the fire going.”

Regis blinks, stirring with a frown. After a moment, he gives up and sinks back into the cot with a groan. “Not done yet, though. First thing in t'morning.”

Geralt pats his knee and smiles. “First thing”, he promises, but Regis is already out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to believe that after the whole Dettlaff drama, Regis just packed his bags, grabbed his two best buds and went on a good, long vacation. Maybe got a little bit of a tan. He definitely deserves it...
> 
> Regis' hypothetical roadtrip aside, I'm relieved beyond measure that this fic is done!!! I powered through this on comments and kudos alone, so again, thank you for your support. I might come back and polish this final chapter a little more, but for now, I'm satisfied c:
> 
> Allow me a few concluding notes to this story:  
> \- Personally, I would've preferred a more wolfish sort of mutation for a Monster!Geralt scenario (Actual Wolf Geralt, yes please); however, I wanted to keep it in line with the canon setup, which requires insect bits to complete. Thus, scales.  
> \- about Dettlaff, I think some fear on Geralt's side is reasonable even before he sees D's full powers. Regis is (understandably) biased in his judgement of the situation, and although he pulls through with his promise to end his friend in case he can't be saved, it's a pretty horrible plan B all around  
> \- I kinda like the HC that Regis made the Mutagenerator in a desperate attempt to keep his idiot Witcher friend alive in his absence  
> \- anyways, like I said. Regis, packed bags, best buds, vacation time. It shall be a thing. Yes.
> 
> I don't wanna make any promises I can't keep, but there's quite a few ideas left on my to-write list -- I'll post when I can!


End file.
